Secrets My Mother Kept (10 page)

One day Mary had a very bad cold. She still went in to work, travelling on the train from Chadwell Heath into Liverpool Street station. It wasn’t a long journey, but was stuffy and damp and by the time she got home that evening she was feeling worse. Mum told her she should stay at home the next day but Mary didn’t want to. She had arranged to meet Dave at lunchtime, and was looking forward to seeing him, but Mum was insistent.

‘You need to get rid of that cold otherwise it could turn to pneumonia.’ Mum always worried about illness getting worse. I suppose she had experienced life before the welfare system and the National Health Service and knew that when little ailments were ignored they could progress into something much worse. She had lost her own little brother Peter when he was just two. He had caught diphtheria which was a terrible, and sadly common, disease before the vaccination was developed in the 40s. One day the poor little boy had a cold and a cough, then he developed a high temperature and within the week he began to struggle to breathe. He died not long after. At the time it wasn’t only diphtheria that was to be feared, but also polio, tuberculosis and pneumonia. Things were better for our generation. Antibiotics were seen as the great cure-all and had almost eradicated the complications that had often accompanied childhood diseases such as measles, whooping cough, mumps and chicken pox. Those parents that had grown up in the pre-antibiotic age were still fearful at the mention of some of these diseases. I clearly remember Aunty’s reaction when Mum brought me home from the doctors one day having been diagnosed with scarlet fever. Mum had managed to calm her down, repeating the doctor’s reassurances, and Aunty was then further placated at the sight of the pink bottle of penicillin that had been prescribed.

Whenever Margaret or I were ill, Aunty would always go over the road to the greengrocers and buy us a huge shiny Jaffa orange, which was a very expensive and unusual treat. Mum would tuck us up on the settee and cover us with a coat or a blanket, cut the orange in quarters, and then give it to us to suck, one piece at a time. Being tucked up in front of the fire with orange juice trickling down our chins was almost as good for us as the penicillin.

Mary was older and her experiences of being ill were different. Mum had not been around for much of the time when she and the twins were small. They never knew where Mum went, only that she was often absent for long periods of time. She would come back to visit periodically, but they would view her as a visitor rather than a mother. Much later as adults we would be able to piece together her likely destinations and begin to understand why she went but for the young Mary, Marion and Marge, Granny and Aunty were the care-givers. Granny was an old lady by that time, and Aunty was out at work, so being home ill was a very different experience for them. For sixteen-year-old Mary, the prospect of being stuck at home with Mum, even with an orange for company, didn’t compete with going to work and seeing her friends and meeting up with Dave, so she got up the next morning, got ready and went in to work. Mary’s cold did indeed get worse. A lot worse. She developed a very severe throat and chest infection, which was slow to respond to the antibiotics she was prescribed. She ended up being off work for almost four weeks. At that time Mary was paid weekly, but as she was unwell, this was to be sent to her as a weekly postal order. The first Saturday came, but no postal order arrived.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Mary, ‘I’m sure that they are supposed to send it off on Friday – sorry Mum.’ All of my working sisters gave Mum the majority of their wages. She desperately needed it to feed us and pay the weekly callers who continually harassed her for the money she owed. The girls would need to keep their fares of course, but after that and a shilling or two for an occasional pair of stockings, the rest went to Mum.

Mum reassured Mary, ‘It’s fine love, don’t worry. I’m sure it will come on Monday.’ Nothing came on Monday, nor the following three weeks.

‘I expect you will get it in one go when you are back at work,’ soothed Mum. Mary was so grateful that Mum wasn’t angry. She knew that money was very scarce and didn’t like letting Mum down like this. She planned to give Mum the money as soon as she was paid, and even thought how nice it would be that she would be able to give Mum a little extra as there would be three weeks’ worth of fares and stocking money left over. When Mary finally recovered sufficiently to return to work, she was really excited. It would be good to see everyone again, especially Dave, who had brought round a bunch of flowers for her, even though he hadn’t been allowed inside to see her. She got dressed carefully on Monday morning, backcombed her hair and even put on a little bit of a lipstick that she had managed to buy one week. The train journey to London felt fresh and new and Mary was feeling so much better, even though Mum had reminded her that the first thing she must do was to go and tell the wages people that she hadn’t been paid for the four weeks she had been off sick. Mary arrived at work keen to return to her switchboard, but before she did she made her way to the wages office, and let them know about her wages not being sent. They looked puzzled but promised to look into it for her. Mary worked through the morning, and managed to find a few minutes to catch up with her friends.

‘Dave has really missed you,’ said Hannah. ‘He keeps popping over trying to see if you are back yet.’ They laughed together, Mary feeling happier by the minute.

At lunchtime she made her way over to the entrance of the building where Dave worked, hoping to catch sight of him as he went out to lunch. Suddenly there he was, beaming at her.

‘Hiya,’ he said, ‘have you got time for a sandwich?’

‘Yes, but I can’t be too long, I need to go back to the wages office to see if they have managed to sort out my money.’

After a sandwich and a cup of tea, Mary left Dave with a promise of a date the following evening, and went to the wages office before starting her afternoon shift at the switchboard. She knocked on the door, and was asked to come in. The wages clerk was trying to smile and be helpful, but she was obviously uncomfortable about something.

‘Mary, I’m really sorry but Mrs D wants to see you,’ she said quietly, looking down at her shoes.

Mary was worried; had she done something wrong? Was she going to get the sack for being ill for so long? As Mary went through to Mrs D’s office, she had a horrible feeling that something was not right.

‘Hello Mary, are you feeling better now?’ asked Mrs D kindly.

Mary nodded and waited.

‘Mary, we are a little bit confused about your wages, dear,’ Mrs D continued. ‘Is there anyone else at home who might have signed for the postal orders? A brother maybe?’

Mary flushed. Peter was married now, and in his own flat, but she knew he would never take her wages anyway.

‘No, not really,’ she whispered, feeling a sinking dread. What was she going to tell Mum? If they were saying that the wages had been sent, there wouldn’t be any extra money today, and Mum was expecting it. What would she say? What would Mum do? She looked up at the kind but serious face of Mrs D.

‘But I really need my money,’ Mary continued. ‘My mum needs it for food, and I haven’t been able to give her any keep for four weeks now.’

Mrs D’s look hardened, ‘Mary, I am really sorry but I am afraid we are going to have to tell the police about this, because someone has taken your postal order, signed for it and cashed it every week.’

At this Mary started to cry, she didn’t know what to do, but the thought of the police being told filled her with fear. What if they didn’t believe her and took her to prison?

‘Look dear,’ said Mrs D, seeing Mary’s obvious distress and confusion, ‘why don’t you go home and talk to your mum about it before we do anything else?’

Mary nodded and thanked her.

When she got home that evening, she was surprised that Mum didn’t go mad.

She did look angry at first. ‘Are you sure they said they were going to call the police?’

‘Yes, I don’t know what to do. Mrs D told me to talk to you about it.’

A strange look came over Mum’s face and then she turned away to pick up her empty cup. Shrugging her shoulders, she said in a resigned voice, ‘Well just leave it, then. It’s not worth causing trouble over,’ and walked into the scullery.

Mary was so very relieved; she was happy to let the matter drop.

13

A Family Holiday

Margaret’s health had improved dramatically. The doctor had finally managed to have her referred to the London Jewish hospital in Stepney. The hospital had been founded in the middle of the nineteenth century to serve the growing Jewish immigrant population. This enabled their patients to adhere to the strict Jewish laws and traditions while being cared for. In 1947 the hospital was taken over by the newly formed National Health Service. I am not sure why Margaret was sent there, but through the years clues that have been revealed have shaped my suspicions.

Margaret was nearly nine by this time and had almost become resigned to being the sick member of the family. When Mum took her to the hospital Margaret was distraught.

‘I don’t want to go,’ she wailed.

Although Mum must have been upset herself, she managed to hide it.

‘It’s only for a little while and when you come out you’ll be all better.’ This was wildly optimistic but Mum was always an expert at convincing people of the most unlikely outcomes.

‘Can Kathleen stay with me then?’ Margaret pleaded, her huge eyes taking on a pathetic desperate look. Mum didn’t answer.

After Margaret had been weighed and measured the nurse called her colleague over to take her to the ward. Margaret clung on to Mum’s arms as the nurse gently extracted her and led her towards the big doors. As she disappeared from our sight she was still crying for Mum. Today parents are encouraged to stay with their children when they are in hospital and being comforted by a loved one is recognised as being an essential part of recovery, but in the 60s this was not the case.

Margaret was subjected to a barrage of investigations including kidney tests, but they all came back clear, and the doctors became more and more perplexed. Finally they noticed that she had very enlarged tonsils and it was decided that these should be removed. I can still remember her crying silently after the operation because she was in so much pain, and the look of disgust on her face when the promised ice cream arrived in a flavour she wasn’t expecting.

Whether it was the removal of her tonsils that triggered Margaret’s improved health we will never know, but improve it did.

It was now only a week or so until the summer holidays. I was due to move to my secondary school in September and was very nervous. New situations always equated to anxiety. I was always fearful of not fitting in, being different from the others, not having the right clothes, shoes, things . . . I also knew that meeting new people meant answering difficult questions. Questions I never knew the answers to. The last few terms at primary school had not been easy for me. I was in the top group in my class, but did not attend regularly. Despite this my teacher was hopeful of me passing the 11-plus exam that all children took at that time to decide whether they would win a place at a local grammar school or would have to attend the secondary modern. I was also entered for a scholarship exam for the Ilford Ursuline Convent School, which took several scholarship students each year from its local community. My sister Pat had won a scholarship there and Mum was hopeful that I would do the same.

On the day that I attended for the exam at the Ursuline School I was very nervous. They had big girls there to show us where to go. Everything was quiet and clean and shiny. So shiny in fact that I slipped over. A kind nun in a long black habit came and helped me up.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘up you get. These floors are so slippery, aren’t they?’

I scrambled to my feet, feeling very silly and embarrassed.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Kathleen Coates,’ I whispered back.

A look of recognition crossed her face. ‘Ahh yes, your sisters came here didn’t they?’ I looked back puzzled. My sister Pat had come here but no one else.

‘Yes, I remember them – Sheila and Patricia; lovely girls and very clever.’

I stared back and nodded.
Sheila
? My secret sister Sheila had come here?

‘I’m sure you’ll do well if you are as bright as they were,’ she added.

I wasn’t. I failed both the 11-plus and the entrance exam to the Ursuline, so secondary modern it was.

I remember going with my mum to the launderette shortly after the results had come. ‘How did she get on then?’ the lady had asked.

‘Oh she passed both,’ answered Mum, ‘but I’ve decided to send her to the Sacred Heart Convent instead because I think she’ll prefer it there.’ I was very confused. Had I passed? I was sure I hadn’t because when Mum opened the letter she was upset and I heard her telling Pat that I would have to go to the secondary school now with all the rough girls. I suddenly felt ashamed. Mum had lied to the lady because she was disappointed in me and didn’t want everyone to know that I wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. I was already a failure and I wasn’t even eleven until August.

I was looking forward to the six weeks holiday though. That wonderful feeling of freedom, of not having somewhere you should go or be. When I arrived home from school Mum opened the door humming. This was a good sign. When we were staying off school with one of our ‘mysterious’ ailments she would often teach us songs, and sometimes sing while we danced around the room. We would dress up in old pieces of fabric draped around us and we would become graceful butterflies while she sang, ‘
Butterflies white, butterflies blue, butterflies golden and heliotrope too
,’ and we would swoop around flapping our wings. I also loved to read poems from the books that were lying around the house and would sometimes try to match them to music and make up dances for us to do. There was one very mournful poem that I loved by Walter de la Mare: